


Senses

by novaplume



Category: The Martian (2015), The Martian - All Media Types, The Martian - Andy Weir
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, F/M, just a cute little tidbit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 04:07:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20075875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novaplume/pseuds/novaplume
Summary: Mark's observations of Mars & Earth





	Senses

_My name is Mark Watney, and I am alive. I didn’t die on Sol 6._

**Sight**

Every day, I go outside and look at the vast horizons, just because I can. It sounds poetic when I put it that way, but really, I fucking hate this goddamn planet. Red everywhere. Sometimes there are rocks, but mostly it’s just this stupid fucking sand.

**Smell**

The air in the HAB is stale and smells like a mixture of chemicals and shit-dirt. Oh, that’s right, because that’s exactly what occurred in here. I fucking hate Mars. I don’t know what the surface smells like, but I’m assuming ass.

**Sound**

There is no sound on Mars. The only sounds I hear when I am outside the HAB are my own breathing and the constant hum of the EVA suit. When I go back inside the HAB, all I can hear is the constant hum of the oxygenator, water reclaimer, and power cells. Yay.

Except when there’s a godawful fucking sand storm. Those can go to hell.

**Taste**

There isn’t much to taste on Mars. I’m sure as hell not going to lick the fucking dirt. But the air tastes metallic. The food on the other hand, is shit. What I wouldn’t give for a fucking hamburger or some deep dish pizza.

**Touch**

The Martian ground is covered in sand and a talc-like powder. It gets everywhere and I hate it. I can’t even imagine what this planet used to look like before it dried up. It’s more dried up than a dead guy’s asshole. I really fucking hate Mars.

* * *

_My name is Mark Watney, and I survived Mars._

**Sight**

The streets of Houston are dirty, but the trees are tall and green. So spectacularly green. I feel like I used to be colorblind and I have since healed from it. There is color everywhere I look, and I can’t wait to see everything on this earth.

My psychiatrist suggested I write a journal to keep my thoughts. I think she thinks it’ll be good for my mental health now that I’m not making logs, but I never stopped. It’s probably not healthy to commentate everything I do, or think, or want. I just don’t know how to stop; all I want is to know I’m not alone, even here on Earth.

**Touch**

My parents hug me more than they used to. Everyone touches me more than they used to. I don’t mind. Mars is a really lonely fucking place. Give me all the touches!

I started walking barefoot on the sandy beaches. I walk barefoot in the NASA buildings too. I don’t receive many reprimands for this reason though. They understand, or pretend to.

I finally met Mindy Park. She has the softest hands I’ve ever shaken - or held. I never want to let go.

**Smell**

My favorite smell in the world isn’t food related. You’d think being from Chicago, it would be pizza or ivy. Or living in Houston, it’d be the salty air, or any of the many food trucks. My favorite smell in the world is the ozone before a rainfall and the petrichor after. Rain. Water, the stuff of life. Just pure and honest water falling from the sky.  
****

Mindy is my neighbor, and she likes to cook. She invites me over for dinner every day. I don’t know if she knows how much that means to me. Her house smells like bread and space. It’s an oddly comforting mixture. I don’t think she bakes bread every day, but the smell of yeast lingers in her kitchen, and wafts to my window.

**Sound**

I don’t think the sounds changed much, but they’re much more vivid than I recall, pre-Mars. My psychiatrist thinks it’s all in my head. But I don’t think it matters.

Car horns are ridiculous. I like to assign the car’s personality based on its horn. Buses are bored, yet grumpy. Semis are rushed and pretty pissed off, but I understand how they feel. Sports cars are like frat guys: stupid and loud.

Mindy’s car is so small, there’s barely room for two. It has a hilarious clown-horn. She drives me to work every day, because I didn’t want NASA to hire me a driver. I try to split gas with her, but she refuses. I don’t know what I’ll ever do to pay her back for everything she’s done and continues to do for me.

**Taste**

I’m happy to report that I will never eat another potato as long as I fucking live. No more potatoes. Ever. But I can’t get enough of bread. Fresh baked bread, stale grocery store bread, even pastry. I just want to eat everything in sandwich form or pie form. As long as it’s not potatoes.

I can taste the salt in the air. I don’t hate it like I used to. “Fresh air is supposed to be fresh, not briny.” I used to say that a lot, but I don’t complain as much now.

It’s cheesy but I want to say it anyway: Mindy. Just Mindy.

I really fucking love Earth.


End file.
